


His Hands

by ImNeitherNor



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: A little bit of angst, AU, Billy is a cook, Billy is sort of a dick, Complete, He just can't handle it, M/M, Mostly fluff and tension, Nancy is supportive, Steve is a waiter, Steve is obsessed with Billy's hands, not canon, one chapter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-17
Updated: 2018-01-17
Packaged: 2019-03-06 05:39:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13404603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNeitherNor/pseuds/ImNeitherNor
Summary: AU: Billy is a cook and Steve is a waiter.Steve can't get over how beautiful Billy's hands are and how, when he cooks, it's like a work of art--like adance.He wonders what they would feel like on his body.





	His Hands

**Author's Note:**

> I had to. I couldn't stop myself. I'm not sorry.

His Hands

 

            His hands were smooth and gentle, but quick. They moved with finesse and in a way that he can only imagine his lovers feeling. Each fluid movement, each time they cradled something, was almost like a dance. It shouldn’t be.

 

            Cooking should never be that intimate, but here Steve was, his apron hiding any sort of problem he may be having while his eyes caught the cook’s fingers dancing over the vegetables, the knife moving in a fashion that made his heart stop.

 

            “—rrington! Harrington!” The cook was barking at him and he was leaning against the counter, his lips in a thin line.

 

            “Uh—yeah? Sorry! Sorry,” Steve bit his lower lip and took the plates. He flushed under the intense eyes of Billy Hargrove and scurried out of the kitchen. Every time Billy and Steve had a shift together, he became a mess. His smooth talking became babbles and his graceful steps became jarred and uncertain.

 

~*~

 

            “You have a crush,” Nancy had supplied one night as he described his problem. Of course, he left out that it was a man and that he was cutting vegetables and meat, for fuck’s sake, but _still_.

 

            “I—that’s _high school_ shit, Nance,” Steve had protested. That was more than a year ago. That was behind them.

 

            “Obviously. So, tell her,” She had shrugged, completely oblivious to his plight.

 

            Easier said than done.

 

~*~

           

            Smoking hadn’t been Steve’s thing, but he had picked it up again during his shifts with Billy. It was too stressful not to.

 

            Sometimes, Billy would walk outside and they would share silence while they both smoked. Steve would catch glimpses of Billy’s hands as they worked his Zippo and clipped it shut. He would notice how his cigarette sits on his ring finger instead of his middle finger, like most people. Or how he held his cigarettes with his left hand instead of his right.

 

            Billy was left handed, and for some reason, Steve found that endearing.

 

~*~

 

            “Y’gotta problem?” Billy had Steve cornered outside, his eyes flashing with muted anger. Steve had dropped a plate earlier, had fucked up, and whatever bad day Billy was having just seemed to compound with Steve around.

 

            “N-no, I—“

 

            “Then stop looking,” Billy hissed and Steve swallowed. Billy’s hands were on either side of his head, spread out across the building. They were in the back, in their normal smoke spot, and Steve wasn’t sure if this was a good or a bad thing.

 

            “I can’t,” Steve managed, his confession choked in his throat as Billy’s eyebrows shot up.

 

            “Oh? Howcome? Y’gotta thing for men, Harrington?” Billy leaned forward and Steve _couldn’t think_. He tipped his head back and away, his heart racketing against his chest.

 

            “I like food,” Steve squeaked out and the look that crossed Billy’s face, part amusement and part curiosity, made him shiver.

 

            “You… You like food?” Billy furrowed his brows. “What the fuck does that even mean?”

 

            “I like—like watching you make food,” Steve licked his lips and didn’t miss when Billy’s eyes dropped to watch him do it.

 

            “What else do you like?” Billy’s hands eased up the building, enough so that now his forearms were pressed against it, his elbows now sitting by Steve’s ears. “Tell me, pretty boy. What else do you like?”

 

            “I—“ Steve swallowed, “I like your hands.”

 

            “Interesting,” Billy leaned further in and Steve turned his face so he was looking off to the side. “What else?”

 

            “I like how you hold a cigarette,” Steve squeezed his eyes shut as he felt one of Billy’s thick thighs press in between his own. Billy didn’t say anything, so Steve continued. “I like how you hold knives. I like—I like imagining…”

 

            “Mm? Imagining what?” Billy cocked his head to the side and Steve, when he realized he wasn’t about to be punched into oblivion, opened his eyes. He still looked off to the side, his hands clenched at his sides.

 

            “I like imagining what your hands… your hands would look like…”

 

            “Look like what, _Steve_?”

 

            Steve inhaled sharply. “On someone.”

 

            “On _someone_?”

 

            “ _Yes,_ on someone, asshole,” Steve bit out and Billy laughed.

 

            “Not very specific,” Then, Billy’s hand was on his jaw. His fingers, calloused and so talented, were tipping his head so that they were looking at each other. Steve had expected it to be rough and demanding, but they were just as gentle with him as they were while he cooked. His thumb brushed over Steve’s lower lip and it made him tremble.

 

            “Me,” Steve mumbled, feeling drunk and high all at once.

 

            “My hands on you?” Billy raised an eyebrow and smirked. That thumb of his dipped passed his lip, over his teeth, across his tongue. Steve shuddered and nodded. He didn’t dare move a muscle, not like this, not while Billy’s hands were on him.

 

            “This explains a lot, Harrington,” Billy mused before he pulled away. He swiped his thumb over Steve’s cheek, leaving a trail of his own spit, and chuckled. He turned and left him standing there, his heart climbing his throat and his stomach in knots.

 

            _What. The. Fuck._

 

~*~

 

            Telling Billy about his fascination had been a _terrible_ damned mistake. Now, whenever they were on shift together, those blue eyes would catch his, that pink tongue would slide out, and he would do something stupidly sensual to a god damned tomato. Or a cucumber. Or a head of lettuce.

 

            It was _pretentious._

 

            Yet, they didn’t have any run-ins after that first one. Billy would make sure to smoke without Steve there, and he was starting to get anxious. Why was Billy avoiding him? He obviously wasn’t grossed out because—well, obviously—what he did to those vegetables when he caught Steve’s eyes was _indecent_.

 

            This went on for a couple of weeks, and by the time Steve was ready to throw in his apron and quit, Billy disappeared.

 

~*~

 

            A month. A month without that jackass around to send him mischievous looks and grins and Steve was being driven insane.

 

            He had known the guy for a little less than a year, and his absence felt like a hole in his chest. It shouldn’t, but it did.

 

~*~

 

            “Might be more than a crush,” Nancy told him one day. Steve was strung out. Exhausted. _Worried_.

 

            “That’s impossible. I’ve only known him for like, a year,” Steve shrugged and then froze because he had slipped. He had slipped and Nancy was staring at him.

 

            “Well… it still sounds like more than a crush,” Nancy gave him a cautious smile and Steve smiled back.

 

            “Yeah… yeah, I guess you’re right.”

 

            But when? And how? And did it even matter anymore?

 

~*~

 

            “I’m headed off. You all have a good one,” Steve nodded as he passed the other employees and the cooks. As he pushed the door open to step out, the familiar wash of Marlboro Reds hit him like a freight train. He froze and tipped his head up.

 

            There, leaning against the building, was Billy Hargrove. He didn’t have his normal work attire on. No, he had pants that were probably actually _painted_ on his skin, a black muscle shirt that fared no better, and his hair was down. His eyes, though, are what caught Steve. They were on him and narrowed, as if _he_ had been the one to up and disappear for two months.

 

            Steve clenched his jaw and turned on his heel to walk toward his car. He wasn’t chasing Billy. He wasn’t doing whatever _this_ was. He had been so fucking worried and Billy was acting like they had seen each other _yesterday_. And why did he even fucking _care_?! There was nothing between them! Abso-fucking-lutely nothing!

 

            “Harrington,” Billy was behind him. How did he move without making noise? “ _Steve_.”

 

            “What?!” Steve whirled around and glared. He felt even more furious when he saw that Billy was smirking at him. “What, you egotistical, piece—“

 

            And then Billy was kissing him. Steve’s back was pressed into his BMW and Billy’s mouth was on his, tasting of smoke, alcohol, and _Billy_. Steve wanted to push him off. He even put his hands on Billy’s chest to do it, but instead, he curled his fingers into his t-shirt and pulled him closer. Billy’s hand was on his face again, just as gentle as it had been the first time, and Steve tried to keep himself from falling.

 

            He may have fallen a long time ago.

 

            When they broke apart, Steve was panting for air and Billy was looking at him like he was something that he had lost, a precious item, and Steve was fucking _confused_.

 

            “Why…?” Steve licked his lips and watched a muscle tick in Billy’s jaw.

 

            “There are a lot of answers to that question,” Billy murmured. “It depends on which _why_ you’re asking about.”

 

            “Why… why did you leave?” _Was it me? Was it because I’m a failure, just like my dad said I would be? Am I not good enough?_ Steve’s thoughts were tumbling.

 

            “My old man ate shit,” Billy shrugged and cut Steve’s apology off with another kiss. “Don’t,” he murmured against Steve’s lips. “He doesn’t deserve your apology. I just had to take care of things there.”

 

            “So… you’re back?” The question was tentative and Steve hated that he sounded nervous. They weren’t dating. They weren’t boyfriends (oh god, that word). They certainly weren’t an item (that’s better). Still, not having Billy to look at while he worked was like having a limb cut off.

 

            “Yes. Miss me?” Billy’s words were soft, tinged with curiosity and _hope_.

 

            “I… yes, I missed you…” Steve swallowed as Billy pressed a gentle kiss right below his ear.

 

            “What did you miss…?”

 

            “Well, I missed your hands…”

 

~*~

 

            Billy’s hands were exactly what Steve thought they would be in bed. They left him gasping, arching, begging. They made him twist and clutch the sheets and pant out Billy’s name into his pillow. They made him shiver as they drew patterns down his spine and along his sides.

 

            But it was nothing like the person who owned them.

 

            No, Billy made him _love_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, kudoing (is that a word?), and commenting! I love you all!


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